


Wynter nas wors

by Lilliburlero



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Middle-Aged Minions, Pre-Canon, Quadruple Drabble, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: Aumerle loves hunting in the coldest month of the year.*Note: period-typical Islamophobic language.





	Wynter nas wors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMalhamBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/gifts).



> TheMalhamBird requested 'Richard II and minions and Aumerle, having a nice time in/because of snow'. It Gets Sad, but them's the rules.

It was a disregarded, deprecated sort of month, but Edward thought February might just be his favourite. The many small humiliations brought about by enforced Christmastide fun had faded from memory, and Richard had at last fully emerged from the volatile gloom that always, these days, enveloped him on his birthday. The hunger that dogged the heels of the Water-Bearer had yet quite to set in (in any case the seasonal scarcity left a Duke’s table bland, rather than actually light) and the weather was almost guaranteed to be some of the coldest of the year.

Edward loved to hunt in the snow, loved the loaded boughs and the ponds steely with rime-ice and the way the frozen air seared paradoxically down one’s throat. It was a shame that Richard needed to palisade himself with followers now; Edward missed the intimate, informal excursions they had enjoyed before the Queen died. But out here in the frosty field everything made sense. Even the continual councillors made sense. Wearing close hoods and caps instead of hats the size of millwheels, frieze coats and leather jerkins instead of damask and taffety doublets buttoned to bursting over paunches, stout kersey hose instead of silk flapping loose on skinny shanks, plain boots instead of obscene piked shoes that made knees into toes, they suddenly became again what they truly were: hard-riding country gentlemen, the very backbone of England. 

That morning the five of them had ridden so hard that they had left the main party far behind, and reached the clearing where the pavilion was being set up for dinner before the servants had finished their work. Bagot was obviously itching to dismount and make a chivvying fuss, but Richard held up a stately hand, and for some indeterminate period—it seemed long, but was probably only moments—they watched the industry that served the King’s leisure. 

At length they were spotted, and a steward dashed out with apologies. 

‘Not at all,’ Richard said, offering his hand for the man to kiss. Having received this obeisance, he leapt lightly to the ground. ‘We crept up on you like—what’s the word, Bushy? The Mohammedan murderers in your story, the hirelings of the Old Man of the Mountain? _Assassins_ , that’s it. It’s not your fault, sirrah, rest easy. If the trestles and benches are not ready, well—for God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground!’

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_.


End file.
